A story of a story
Alice and Michael were quite the co-dependents back in 2005 and 2006, having gotten together after several Disco Biscuit shows where the combination of Alice’s cute blond hair, Mike’s worldy ways, and several different chemical concoctions conspired to fill the role left vacant when Western Europeans and their Colonists ceased believing in Cupid and his arrows. Firing of neurons and all that. Corresponding intake of breath. Iron filings all lining up in one direction and all that.
What began as a simple attraction, and then a simple engagement with each other’s bodies and minds, what began with each of them carefully walling off their faculties of judgment, not so hard, considering the chemical fog they were generally living under, a delay of judgment, maybe, a procrastination, and of course, that everpresent need of Other that will always privilege the present over any number of uncertain tomorrows, in short, a simple relationship without much investment, revolving around music and drugs, six months later had became a relationship of almost unending importance to them —
In short, they had fallen in love. Accidentally? Sure. It does not make it less important.
Six months after that, they had moved in together. Deeper and deeper. I saw them every now and again, at shows, or at Genie’s apartment — they were very attached to each other, co-dependent — still smoking plenty of pot sure, still half addled, but liking the same things and loving each other.
I moved away, but the 21st century uberwelt presses on. Three years later, Alice is in Rhode Island with somebody else. I do not know what happened to Michael.